


Autassassinophilia

by quirkybookworm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, BDSM, Breathplay, Choking, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Face-Fucking, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Snuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25541914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkybookworm/pseuds/quirkybookworm
Summary: It takes years, but Stiles finally stars in his first (and only) snuff film.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Autassassinophilia

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS LITERALLY A CONSENSUAL MURDER FIC. 
> 
> If you are wanting to read anything remotely sane, or joyful.. this ain't it. 
> 
> This fic has been sitting in my drafts for 4 and a half years. I'm not sure what made me come back to it today, and finally finish it, but here we are. I'm almost certain that I should've left in unfinished in my drafts, because this might be the most fucked up thing that I've ever written.

Stiles was a kinky little shit, okay? Like, that just was what it was. He’d always been into the more extreme stuff. He’d started watching porn at 13 - thanks, internet! - and had gotten into BDSM style porn by 14. While most people are content to stay with that, Stiles just wasn’t, he always wanted to watch more; more extreme, more graphic, more dangerous. He got into choking porn at 15, and found the more extreme versions at 16 -- y’know, the ones where the chokees actually pass out. But, he figured that it wasn’t a big deal because, at the end of the day, he was just jacking off in his bedroom. 

Then, he started dating, and he realized that non-vanilla sex was kind of a requirement for him. And, that sucked, because there are plenty of vanilla people who are fucking awesome, and it’s shitty that they’re out of his dating pool. But, non-vanilla people are great, too, and Stiles has fun dating -- especially once he’s in college. He spends time at BDSM clubs, and he eventually meets this dom who goes by Deucalion, and they have a lot of fun. Stiles learns a lot about his preferences over the course of their relationship -- which lasts from Stiles’ sophomore year of college until right before his graduation. After college is over, Stiles moves back to Beacon Hills, and finds work as an intern -- yeah, a four year degree just to get unpaid work as intern. ‘Murica. 

He works, and works, and works some more until he actually gets promoted to a paid position. He hangs out with Scott whenever he comes back home, makes a couple new friends from work that he has beers with on occasion, and he makes sure to have dinners - healthy! dinners - with his dad a couple of times a week. He drives down to Sacramento almost every weekend, because even though the BDSM scene there leaves something to be desired, it’s better than nothing. And, once a month, he tries to make it out to San Francisco, and meet up with Braeden, one of his favorite doms. It’s her, actually, who tells him about the website that tells him about the website that will eventually become his obsession. 

It’s a website for people who prefer the darker elements of BDSM. Honestly, the stuff that can hardly even be considered BDSM, anymore, but there’s no other word for it. That website leads to a plethora of others. They’re websites for people who fantasize about practicing non-consensual BDSM, and other websites for people who actually practice it -- if Stiles wasn’t so damn desensitized, maybe he would’ve reported it to the police. But, he didn’t. Instead, he kept delving deeper, and deeper, until he found this weird pocket of the internet that he never could’ve even dreamed existed. He’d managed to find snuff films which, up until then, he didn’t think were actually real. All that he’d really remember about that night, years later, was the woman on screen gasping her final breaths, and himself vomiting into the toilet until it was psychically painful. 

After that, he leaves the website alone for a long time. He even takes a bit of a break from the BDSM scene, even though he realizes that the BDSM scene and the snuff scene are two totally different things, and tries to be vanilla. He hooks up with this guy that he knew from high school, Danny, and the guy is great, but the sex is shit, and he ends up back in San Francisco before the month is over. 

He was just leaving a BDSM session with one of his favorite doms when he got the call that his dad had died in the line of duty.

After that, there was the funeral, and the will, and selling the house, and a million other things. Stiles stopped hanging out with work friends, and stopped returning Scott’s calls, and, at first, he justified it -- that he was just busy with all the funeral stuff, but eventually he realized he was slipping back into the depression that he had after his mom died. Just because he realized it, though, didn’t mean that there was anything that he could do to stop it. 

He still goes to work, and he goes to school - oh, yeah, he decided to pursue his masters, because his bachelors wasn’t worth shit. - every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Eventually, he forces himself to have dinner with Scott and Melissa -- kill two worried birds with one stone. And, he makes himself make new, new, friends at school, and he goes out with them, too. And, maybe he doesn’t feel quite as sad, but he still feels just as empty, and discouraged. 

All of this, plus the fact that Stiles still couldn’t get that snuff film out of his mind, culminated into Stiles developing a bit of an obsession with death. His spare time, what little of it that he had, became dedicated to death and dying. He watched crime shows, and horror videos on YouTube, and when that wasn’t satisfying, anymore; he moved back into the snuff films that had freaked him out so much before. This time, when he watched them, it was with new lenses. His disgust was replaced with fascination.

It was 3 years after his dad died that Stiles finally moved away from Beacon Hills. 

He got a new job, a better job, in San Francisco. He dated this one guy for a bit, and they had fun, but he wasn’t on board with Stiles’ more extreme fantasies -- which, was fine. He was allowed to have other kinks, but it did make them quite sexually incompatible so that relationship had ended quickly. Most of Stiles’ relationships ended quickly, if he were being honest, so he eventually, kind of, just gave up. He focused on other stuff; work, and new friends, and wasting way too much time on YouTube. And, occasionally, going to the really dark parts of the Internet that a normal person would probably report to the police. 

It was there that he met a guy, Derek. Stiles had posted a story that he'd written about a college student who shared his fantasies, and chose to act them out. Derek had responded just a few days after he posted it and, soon after, they exchanged emails. They emailed back and forth for months, because it was the first time that Stiles had found someone who shared his kinks. Or, well, shared complimentary kinks. While Stiles fantasized about being held down, and choked to death, Derek fantasized about doing the choking. It was insane, Stiles realized that. No rational human being would entertain someone’s fantasies about killing them, but here they were. 

Nearly a year after meeting Derek online, Stiles made the decision that he wanted to carry this over into the real world. His life, at this point, and at all points up until this point, was shit. He was miserable, and the only time that he found any sort of joy was when he was talking to Derek. So, he and Derek made a plan to take make their fantasies a reality. Of course, he knew that by doing this -- it was all going to be over. His fantasy was one that you could only live out once. Maybe it was absolute insanity, but that thought was almost comforting. He’d get to die in the best way that he could possibly imagine, and then he’d be free from all of it. 

Stiles would be lying if he said that his hands didn’t shake as he typed his address to this stranger online, and he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t have regrets in the days that followed. But, as the days stretched into weeks, it almost felt as though it wasn’t going to happen; like, it wasn’t real, but it was. And, on a Wednesday afternoon, Derek made good on his promise.

They decided that it’d be best if Stiles doesn’t know exactly when it’s going to happen, so when a muffled thunk awakens him in the middle of the night — he stirs, he sits up in confusion, and tries to force his eyes open. He listens intently, and hears the quiet creaking of the floorboards. His brain is still foggy, half asleep, but he remembers their plan. He knows that part of Derek’s fetish is the thrill of the chase, so he quickly gets off of his bed, onto the floor, and slides underneath. He knows Derek will find him. 

He sees his bedroom door open, and watches large black boots walk across his bedroom floor — the sound of his old hardwood floors groaning echoes throughout the small space. Stiles feels like he’s going to vibrate right out of his body, his heart is pounding, and his lungs begin to hurt from holding his breath for so long. Then, when he feels like he can’t take the anticipation for a moment longer, it’s over — a large hand grips his left ankle and he’s being drug out from underneath his metal framed bed. His head clanks against the cold white metal on his way out, feels the sharp sting of torn skin and the blood starting to trickle down into his eyebrow — he knows that any half decent cop will find that. It’ll give them a clue. It’ll be too late. 

Derek has him pinned, face down on the floor with his hands behind his back, in a matter of seconds. Stiles is still out of breath from his time under his bed, but Derek seems unfazed. Stiles still hasn’t seen his face in person, but his hands are big and he smells like honey. Stiles should be terrified, and he is, but he also isn’t. 

Derek pulls at his arms, coaxing him into a standing position, and says, “C’mon. Up.” 

Stiles’ legs feel like jello, and his stomach lurches as the blood from his forehead trickles down onto his lip. He never liked blood. 

Derek leads him out onto his balcony, and down the stairs. Stiles guesses he didn’t want to risk any security cameras that might line the street out front. The air is colder than it should be for an October night in California. Derek keeps a firm grip on Stiles’ arms, and Stiles can’t help but think about what Derek will do with those hands later. He shudders, dick hard in his pants. 

Once the reach Derek’s car, he pops the trunk, and Stiles actually sees him for the first time. He’s seen one picture as he asked for one prior to giving Derek his address. He’s so much better in person, though. His face is a beautiful contrast of sharp features, and soft eyes. His face gives away nothing, and it’s almost eerie. There’s no hint of emotion, look of arousal, no sweat on his brow — nothing. They stand at his trunk, briefly, before Derek asks him, “Are you sure this is what you want?” 

“Yes.” Stiles nods. 

“I can untie you, and you can go right back inside.” Derek says, sounding sincere. 

“I’m sure.” Stiles said. 

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“I know.” 

With that, Derek grabbed the back of his neck, and forced him into the trunk of the car. 

Stiles nearly falls asleep in the trunk. It’s dark, and cool, and the ride feels like mostly interstate driving until the end. The end of the drive is bumpy, and ultimately what keeps Stiles awake. He assumes it’s back roads leading to where Derek lives. They eventually pull to a stop, and Derek comes around immediately to open the trunk. It’s daylight now. So, the ride was long enough for night to melt into day. Derek helps him out of the trunk, and it feels weird. Derek is being so gentle, now, and soon that will stop. It vaguely reminds Stiles of a guy he met on vacation, once — he went from 0 to 100 faster than Stiles could say ‘yes, sir’. 

Derek’s house is small, and run down, but the inside is fairly cozy. He has a small tan colored couch that Stiles can’t imagine getting fucked on, let alone strangled on. He hopes Derek has a sex dungeon for a bedroom, or something. 

He’s lead to the kitchen, and Derek guides him into a dining room chair. They haven’t said anything since they arrived, but that feels almost better than talking. Stiles doesn’t have much to say, right now. There’s too much built up anticipation for small talk. It feels like the world’s most fucked up version of Christmas morning. 

“I’m gonna go tie up some loose ends,” Derek says, as he literally ties Stiles to the chair he’s sitting in. It’s almost funny. 

Stiles nods. 

“When I get back, we’ll make our tape, and then go downstairs.” 

Downstairs, so not getting murdered on Aunt Katherine’s couch. That’s good. 

Stiles studies Derek’s home while he’s gone. There’s not much else to do. Stiles thought that, maybe, he’d feel regret, but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just so broken that he still can’t process his reality, but he feels like he has a good grip on what’s happening, and he’s just content with his decision. What’s a better last day than living your ultimate fantasy, having sex with a dude who looks like he stepped out of Sports Illustrated, and finally moving onto something that isn’t the utter bullshit of the world? 

Derek reappears, probably 30 minutes later, and is carrying a camera. This was part of their agreement, a virtual proof of consent, in case Derek ever needed it. He shouldn’t, though. They were careful to erase anything that might connect the two of them in anyway. Derek unties Stiles’ hands, and Stiles is free. He’s a few feet from the front door, and could leave right now if he wanted to. He doesn’t. 

The red recording light blinked at him, and Derek motioned for him to start talking. 

“My name is Stiles Stilinski. I am with Derek Hale of my own free will, and I can leave at any time. I am a willing participant. I am here with the intention of fulfilling my erotic fantasies,” he should be embarrassed with this little speech, but he’s not. No one should ever see this, besides Derek, and Derek knows everything he’s about to say and more, “of autassassinophilia. I want to be strangled to death. This is a fully consensual act. I have safe words, and actions I can use at any time.” 

When they’re done, Stiles is lead down Derek’s hallway. They go through the door at the end of the hall, and down the stairs. The basement is like anyone’s else basement. It’s cold, dark, and unfinished. There’s a room off to the far back right, and when Stiles steps in, his heart rate skyrockets. There’s a shower that probably belongs in a movie about the Holocaust, a long metal table that should definitely be in a morgue, and smaller side table with enough toys for Derek to run his own sex club. Stiles’ stomach clamps up with nerves. 

Derek moves toward the smaller side table, and picks up a knife before walking towards Stiles. Knives are not a kink of Stiles’, but he knows Derek likes them, and they agreed they would be used in this endeavor in a limited capacity. Derek runs the tip of the knife across Stiles’ cheek, not enough to cut his skin, but enough to feel it. Stiles shudders, and then the sensation is gone. It’s quickly replaced, though, as Derek uses the knife to cut Stiles’ thin t-shirt off of his body. He feels exposed. It always feels vulnerable to be the first one without clothes. 

His t-shirt is in threads on the floor, all he can smell is the honey-sweet scent of Derek’s shampoo, and his dick is tenting the front of his pajama bottoms as Derek catches the waistband with the tip of his knife and begins to cut. Almost too soon, Stiles is down to just his boxer-briefs, and his erection was painfully obvious.  
“Knees.” Derek commands, and Stiles’ knees almost immediately hit the cold concrete floor. 

Derek carefully unbuttons his pants, and pulls his zipper down, taking much more care with his clothes than with Stiles’. He hooks his thumbs into his own underwear, and pulls them down. 

Derek does not disappoint, in any regard. His dick is almost as nice to look at as his face. Almost. He uses his left hand to grab a fistful of Stiles’ hair, and drag him closer to his cock. Stiles’ mouth drops open instinctively, and he feels the tip of Derek’s cock push past his lips and onto his tongue. The soft head feels heavy in his mouth, and Stiles finds himself on comfortable footing once again. He’s always been a bottom who liked to give. 

He slowly nudges forward, tongue circling around the mushroom head, as Derek lets out soft groans above him. He pulls back slightly, just enough to make eye contact, before pushing much farther down -- earning him a deep groan. Derek uses both hands, framing Stiles’ face, to pull him all the way forward. Stiles gags, surprised, but uses his tongue to block his gag reflex as Derek pulls out so he could thrust back in again. 

It’s relentless, exactly the way they both like it. It’s not even a blow job, anymore. It’s downright face fucking, and it has Stiles breathless. Derek keeps going, and going, until Stiles’ jaw and throat are sore, and his lips feel raw. He doesn’t give him time to take a breath, or a second to readjust -- he just takes and takes and takes. He pushes in so deep that Stiles nearly vomits, but then he’s coating Stiles’ throat with his cum and it’s almost soothing. Like, aloe on a sunburn. 

Afterwards, Derek’s breathing is altered, too. That makes Stiles feel a little better, like he’s not the only one caught up in the heat of it all. Derek pulls him to his feet, “Take off your underwear. Bend over the table.” 

Stiles almost says no. It’s a humiliating request -- a cold metal table in an unfinished basement is practically romance’s antonym, but he complies. 

He’s hyper aware of his body, and his surroundings. He’s completely tuned into the cold metal against his chest, to the sound of water dripping out of the shower head, and the hard press of Derek’s fingers on his hips. Derek is slowly rocking behind him, his cock slowly brushing against Stiles’. It’s the most stimulation he’s had, and it’s not enough. He’s so worked up that he needs more, but the soft tantalizing brush of Derek’s cock against his thighs, his balls, his shaft is good. By the time he pulls away again, Stiles’ dick is leaking precum. 

Derek is rubbing lubed covered fingers against his hole, and Stiles is trying his best to relax. Between work, and school, and shitty television, he hasn’t had anal in months. It’s always uncomfortable, at first, and Derek is rough. Here, though, Derek is slow. Derek is methodical. He drags it out, more than Stiles needs. He takes his time -- tip of his index finger, then to the second knuckle, pulling long slow strokes at Stiles’ cock. It gets frustrating, fast. Stiles has always been an impatient one when it comes to pleasure -- millennial seeking instant gratification, is what his professor would say. 

By the time Derek is close to being able to actually fuck him, Stiles is sweating. His legs are shaking from the effort it takes to keep him up, and Derek seems almost unfazed. Just when Stiles thinks he might die from frustration, Derek pulls his fingers out. 

“Down.” Derek orders, “On your hands and knees” 

Stiles gets down on all fours, and tries to hide the fact that he’s shaking. He knows that it’s not going to be long. He thinks, briefly, about Scott and Melissa. He thinks about what might be, or what could have been, and he knows he could leave. He doesn’t. For what might be the first time, and will definitely be the last time, he’s doing what he wants to do and he’s doing it for no one but himself. 

Then, mid-thought, his head is shoved down into the concrete and he grunts. It tears open the barely formed scab on his temple, and he feels his head start to bleed again. Then, Derek is shoving inside of him, forceful and unrelenting. There’s none of the usual conversation, no coddling, or checking in -- just the steady, persistent, shove of his cock as far inside of Stiles as he can. For a moment, it’s pleasure; the thick, heavy, stretch of Derek’s cock outweighing the pain in his temple, or the rough concrete floor against his bony knees. Until it’s not. 

Derek has one hand on Stiles’ hip, and the other on Stiles’ head. Stiles can do nothing about the concrete scraping against his face, or the blood that has managed to get into his eyes and blur his vision. It’s awful, and amazing, and terrifying. Half of him wants to throw up, and the other half wants to cum. 

Derek’s cock feels huge. It’s not the biggest Stiles has had, but it’s the biggest he’s had in years. Stiles feels like he’s raw, like he’s inside out -- all of innermost desires are laid on the table, and it’s nearly too much. 

Stiles feels empty as Derek pulls out of him, and then slowly nudges him over to lay on his back. Derek reaches for a towel laying on the side cart, and dabs at the blood on Stiles’ face. 

“Are you sure?” Derek asks

“I thought you said you weren’t gonna ask again.” 

“I wasn’t” Derek sighs, “But, I have to know before we do this.”

“I’m sure.” Stiles says, “I want to do this. I want you to do this. I want you to kill me.” 

With that, Derek hikes Stiles’ legs up around his hips, reaches down between them, and guides his cock back inside of Stiles. There’s one-two-three-four thrusts of Derek’s cock into him, before Derek brings his hands to Stiles’ throat. There’s a slow build, almost like Derek is testing his limits. It starts a soft pressure, just enough for Stiles to feel, and then grows until Stiles cannot breathe at all. He knows his face is turning bright red, his hands holding onto Derek’s arms instinctively, and his body feels like it’s on fire. It’s everything he wanted. He can feel Derek’s cock pulsing inside of him, can hear the blood rushing in his ears, can feel the concrete floor scrape against his back, and it doesn’t make sense but he feels more alive than he’s felt in years. 

Derek lets up. He doesn’t let go, but he allows Stiles to breathe again. Stiles’ voice is hoarse when he chokes out, “do it”

And, he does. He squeezes so hard that Stiles’ gasp brings him nothing. He’s still fucking into Stiles, and Stiles feels himself come without touching his dick for the first time. His skin feels like it’s on fire. He starts to claw at Derek’s arms as the instinctual panic sets in. He feels himself slowly start to slip. He’s done this part before, with a few past boyfriends -- let them choke him until he passes out. The world goes silent, then dark even though his eyes are wide open, all he can feel is Derek pulsing inside of him, and it’s so unbelievably intense. 

The last thing he ever hears is Derek’s grunt of pleasure - or, maybe, it was effort? - and the last thing he sees is Derek's face covered in sweat.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, guys, there she is.   
> I'm sorry. 
> 
> I have other fics that are unfinished, as well. None of them are quite this level of dark (thank god), but I'm hoping to finish some of them soon.


End file.
